


In Itself a Tremendous Thing

by pendragonness



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Aramis being a flirty annoyance, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hand Jobs, M/M, aggressive playfulness and sass basically, and Porthos secretly loving all of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1454437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonness/pseuds/pendragonness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis and Porthos cross the boundary of friendship they'd been toeing for months. Just a pretty straight-forward, sexed-up exploitation of their relationship on the show, purely for pleasure.<br/>-<br/>It smelt like sweat and tasted like blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Itself a Tremendous Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I really didn't predict I'd wind up writing anything for this show - let alone posting anything - but damn. It was meant to be a quick guilty pleasure done in a day or two and now it's been a week and a half instead...whatever. These two are absurd and I'm in love with their adoration of each other and that's that. I'm a big fan of envisioning their physical relationship as aggressively playful with moments of tense emotions, so that's what you get. 
> 
> This isn't really based after any specific episode.
> 
> um the title is from Charlotte's Web: "You have been my friend.. That in itself is a tremendous thing."

It wasn't the fault of drink. So many (many) of the musketeers' collisions with people and things were the fault of a good day and drink, or a bad day and drink. This had been one of those good days but the drink wasn't heavy yet – the moods were just especially high. Aramis was constantly laughing, Porthos was overly talkative and persistently looking for competition, d'Artagnan was fumbling to avoid a flock of interested females, Athos smiled. 

Porthos found a few men willing to entertain his good temper and attempt a faux-boxing match, much to Athos' dismay and Aramis' unrelenting good humor. A small group formed a circle in an alley away from too many passerby, with Porthos and another man standing across from each other. They were both down to loose trousers and shirts, the musketeer having shed his thick leather armor and any sign of weaponry, and rules were established on a point scoring system – specific placement of a hit gained specific points, and after a certain amount of time, whomever had the highest number of points was the winner. It was designed in the feeble hope that the two men wouldn't beat the shit out of each other but have a game instead.

Unsurprisingly, Porthos' first two opponents lost quickly and gravely, but with little more damage than pride and a sore jaw. Only one of them had landed a hit on the larger man: a jab to the ribs that was little more than uncomfortable. Now Porthos circled with a third man, this one nearly his size, and they scuffled around almost equally, hitting and missing simultaneously. Porthos had been drinking between each win and now his patience had thinned. Aramis could be heard laughing and commenting when the stranger landed a mocking cuff across Porthos' ear. The man swung again and Porthos ducked to the side, instead lunging forward to tackle his opponent to the ground. Cheers and bellows erupted across the intoxicated audience as the two boxers became disarrayed wrestlers, grunting and rolling in the thick dirt. 

Porthos had the upper hand easily, landing a couple firm – but not harsh – blows to his opponent's stomach, and then catching the man's head underneath his arm, holding the man on top of him as he lay on his back, legs twisted and trapping the losing musketeer. The man tugged for a moment before it became difficult to breathe and he understood he would not possibly find a weak spot in this position: he tapped at Porthos' shoulder and was released with a laugh.

The men fell apart to the cheers of their feeble audience and Porthos clapped his opponent on the shoulder good-naturedly, before taking Aramis' offered hand up. 

“And what do you win?” Athos had appeared, only vaguely showing amusement or interest.

Porthos shrugged, “Reputation, I suppose.”

“Ah well then you certainly need all the help you can get,” Aramis chided, and Porthos responded by tossing a finger-full of mud from his shirt at the man.

“I have had enough entertainment for the night, I think,” Athos continued, “I'm going to go for a walk. Goodnight.”

Porthos nodded, Aramis bowed his head melodramatically, and d'Artagnan waved feebly as Athos walked past him, where he sat forcing himself to listen to a chattering young bar maid.

“He's got it rough, ain't he?” Porthos gestured toward the younger man, who looked desperately uncomfortable.

Aramis grinned. “He'll learn to enjoy it soon enough.”

Porthos grunted in reply, glanced at his companion for a moment, and then tugged at his own shirt. “I might've ruined this.”

“Well,” Aramis started, voice immediately laced with heavy sarcasm, “as least it was for a good cause.”

Porthos grinned and shoved at Aramis' shoulder. “You're only teasin' cause you're too worried about bein' pretty to get in to fights.”

“Someone's got to keep up appearances around here – you certainly don't try very hard.”

The slighter man ducked away from Porthos' fake-lunge, both of them grinning.

“How about you shut up for a moment and get me a drink?” Porthos said, “I'm gonna get some of this dirt off.” Aramis raised a brow, surprised at his friend's concern in appearance in the middle of night, amongst drowsy and drunken musketeers. “d'Artagnan needs some competition,” he explained.

“I thought that was where I come in?”

“Yeah, you'd like to think so.”

Aramis grinned at Porthos' retort, the larger man turning away to find either a spare shirt in their barracks or a trough to wash off some of the dirt, and Aramis did as instructed, finding another pint for each of them.

-

Less than an hour later, d'Artagnan had disappeared presumably to bed or to find Constance and have, as Aramis and Porthos envisioned, some sweetly boyish heart-to-heart. They were two of only a handful of musketeers still lingering and Porthos convinced his friend that it was a nice night and they needn't spend more time than necessary around a bar. Silence had been falling between them more often as their last drink drained away, Porthos seeming almost despondent, thoughtful perhaps, and Aramis attempted to restore his friend's spirits, whatever had happened to them.

“Ah, you've still got some mud there-” Aramis' voice was light in that teasing tone he seemed perpetually set with, as he shoved the back of Porthos' left shoulder, “-and there..” He cuffed gently at Porthos' ear, only to have the larger man grab at his wrist with alarming speed and cuff him back, not entirely friendly. 

Surprised, Aramis grabbed at Porthos' shirt; Porthos grabbed back, turning them until he swung Aramis against a wall, perhaps a little harder than necessary. Aramis grunted at the force and then stared. The two men each had a hand clenched in the chest of the other's shirt, both holding the other at a distance while refusing to let them get away. Aramis stared at Porthos cautiously, but a smile hinted at the edge of his mouth. Porthos was much more somber, almost concerned, and he couldn't be sure where this change had come from, or why. The sound of other musketeers drinking and merry-making was no longer acknowledged by either man, it was over taken by the force of silence and tension between them, as though some foreign entity had made itself known in their presence, something neither was willing to name. 

Aramis, naturally, was the first to break the strange stillness, as he grinned and made to clap Porthos on the shoulder with his free hand – only to have that arm caught now too. His smile faltered as he struggled to pull from his friend's grip, resulting in a scuffling match of the two men twisting and attempting to grab or break free, alternatively. Not a word was said. One word, in that moment, would have stopped it all and neither of them were strong enough to do that. Aramis stopped struggling, now closer, his forearms braced against Porthos' chest as they both panted lightly. He stared up at his companion, not nervous but not confident – patient, knowing what happened next would not be his decision alone. His glance fell down to the chest his arms were braced against, which his chest almost met; the large triangle of skin stretched over bone the loose shirt bared, the color of the skin, the change of color with the edge of a scar half-hidden beneath cloth. His eyes lifted again to meet Porthos'. The bigger man was impossible to read but once their gazes met again he pushed closer, leaving no space between them, and ducked his head the couple inches needed to be nearer to Aramis. The body in his grip did not struggle to get away, did not recoil in any manner, and that was what he needed. With astounding restraint, Porthos brought his face as close to Aramis' as he could without them touching. He closed his eyes and breathed, smelt both of them, the sweat and dirt and drink, and the heat of Aramis' skin. Their noses bumped, accidentally, and that was the trigger to push Porthos' lips against Aramis'. 

The touch was restrained for only a breath, and then Porthos shoved the want in his mouth against Aramis', teeth knocking briefly and Aramis being forced back a step, as Porthos moved a bruised hand to grip the long curls at the back of Aramis' head. He broke the punching kiss after barely a couple seconds, keeping his eyes closed and face pressed against Aramis, his nose nestled against the other man's cheek, their breath coming in tense, hot gasps against skin and lips and teeth. Aramis pushed forward for another kiss but Porthos snapped his head back, tightening his grip in Aramis' hair – earning an uncomfortable snarl from the man. He let go apologetically and Aramis took advantage, stepping close again and this time reaching up to cradle Porthos' jaw with a free hand, the other clutching his shirt, and kiss him back, hard and sure. It smelt like sweat and tasted like blood, the result of a knock in the mouth Porthos received while boxing, and Aramis struggled for a moment not to recoil or spit. He kept pushing against the other musketeer until Porthos returned the kiss, tilting his head to make their positions more agreeable, eagerly mouthing back at Aramis, his teeth scraping briefly at the smaller man's lower lip, resulting in a desperate scrabble at his chest. 

Porthos recoiled again at Aramis' enthusiasm only to have Aramis practically lunge forward, refusing to let him back away now, and instinct took over for the two men as they tussled with frustrated attraction and nerves again, Porthos trying to fight Aramis off and Aramis doggedly holding on. An accidental fist from Porthos caught Aramis on the chin and they stopped as quick as that. They finally let go of each other entirely, a foot of space between them, feeling like different people than they were moments ago.

“Sorry,” Porthos said the words softly, not an apology so much as a form of excuse.

Aramis paused, thinking, better at understanding his companion than he would dare confess. “Are you okay, my friend?”

What a strange way to say it. Porthos had been looking at the ground but now met Aramis' concerned brown eyes once again. He nodded and then hesitated. Aramis waited. Aramis was always so good to him.

“I don't...I don't know what I want right now,” Porthos started, his voice soft and thick, more full of emotion than he anticipated. But he wasn't embarrassed – he and Aramis always brought out the best in each other, and with that they also took the worst. 

“Well I want you, Porthos. Right now, I want you.” Aramis breathed the words slowly, and Porthos felt his body flood with heat. He didn't need to say anything. Aramis stepped slowly forward. He reached out again, his eyes never leaving Porthos' face even though Porthos stared cautiously at his chest in return, and his fingers tenderly brushed at Porthos' temple, smoothing dark curls, then danced along the scar that cut through his eyebrow. The larger man gripped the chest of Aramis' shirt and drug him forward for another kiss, crashing their mouths together indelicately. Aramis grunted in surprise but responded by pushing himself closer to his companion, his hands twisting messily in his hair. The kiss was hot and wet, the hinted tastes of blood and drink nearly washed away so that they only tasted each other, raw and exposed. 

Porthos used his size to advantage, as he backed Aramis up against a wall and bore down on him, Aramis' feet slipping in the soft ground. He kissed Porthos with a passion never before released on any being, only daring to act so strongly because he knew Porthos would return the same passion to him. And he did – one of the hands gripping Aramis' shirt tore at the cloth, forcing the neck line further open, and then Aramis made a sound that combined an inhale with a groan as Porthos' mouth found the newly exposed flesh, kissing it clumsily, panting, teeth scraping. Now a hand fumbled ferociously at his hip, pulling the flowing shirt from the tightly laced trousers so rough fingers could scrabble at the smooth skin beneath. Aramis nearly spasmed out of Porthos' desperately close grasp.

“Somewhere else,” Aramis panted, squirming. “P-Porthos..somewhere else..”

He was understood and hesitantly released, although neither moved away from the other, still close enough that their chests touched and noses pressed against cheeks, shaking breath seeped into skin. Porthos watched Aramis's mouth, Aramis watched Porthos watch him. An eternity could have passed before they gained awareness once more.

“We're not going to get anywhere at this rate,” Aramis jibed, a crooked grin starting.

Porthos huffed and smiled in return, then it fell as he swallowed, uneasy once more. He was the one to step away. “Where do we go?”

They both glanced up and down the empty alleyway. The not-too-distant sounds of talking and laughter suddenly seemed threatening. 

“Athos lodges beside my room but he'll be gone for quite a while yet,” Aramis said, “so,” he shrugged, his eyes questioning Porthos. The man considered this for half a moment, and then nodded with the faintest hesitation. Aramis' room was closer than his own, and the less distance they had to cover meant the less chance they would be seen.

Aramis leaned forward again and kissed Porthos gently, wanting to ease the discomfort he saw clearly on his friend's face. His hand stroked at Porthos' jaw for just a moment and then he pulled away with a warm, timid smile. 

“Come on, then.”

-

Porthos entered first. Aramis shut the door softly behind him. Porthos shifted, his body ragingly eager, his mind determinedly hesitant, and Aramis understood. Aramis always understood. He walked slowly toward his friend, his dear friend, gaze sure, face calm, tugging his boots off, his hands moving casually to tug the rest of his shirt free from his trousers, and then to unlace the breeches themselves. He began to pull the loose shirt over his shoulders when Porthos became bold and reached to help him, slipping the white fabric over Aramis' head and dropping it carelessly. He touched Aramis' arm tentatively, feeling warm skin instead of cloth now, and his eyes traced carefully over the man's bare chest and stomach as though for the first time – which it certainly was not. But now he could look, study, even. Until Aramis demanded his attention again, stepping closer and cupping a hand against his cheek.

“Come here,” Aramis said softly, and kissed him again. This was the first time it wasn't chaotic and sloppy – this was just a chaste kiss, soft mouth against mouth, slow and patient. Porthos could have wept to live in that moment and never do anything else. 

Aramis' hands tugged gently at Porthos' clothes, opening the collar of the loose shirt and then slipping his hands playfully beneath the fabric, gliding over the warmth of Porthos' stomach for a moment, resulting in hitched breath and a sharp inhale, and then dragging the shirt over the taller man's head. 

Porthos kissed harder now, almost forcing Aramis back a step, and his own hands fumbled at the laces of his breeches as he toed his boots off with only a little trouble. He shoved distractedly at the unyielding cloth, which refused to simply fall away, and Aramis chuckled before planting a long kiss on the line of Porthos' collarbone. His hands found their way over Porthos', guiding them to pull at the trousers until they shimmied further away, and then his touch adjusted, gripping Porthos' rear and earning himself a satisfied grunt. He pawed momentarily at his companion's bum, and then without warning, shoved his hands not only down the backside of the impudent trousers but the braes as well, caressing hot skin and resulting in a yelp from Porthos that was muffled by their mouths. The bigger man's body lurched in surprise, stumbling against Aramis, his size enough to dominate but his actions too haywire at the moment to have any proper control. 

“God damn it, Aramis,” Porthos finally breathed, his eyes clenched shut as the man who was pressed against him gently dug blunt nails into his behind. Porthos grabbed desperately back at him, a large hand finding Aramis' throat, his thumb forcing the chin up, demanding attention. “Much as I would love to, mate, I can't do this much longer.” He admitted such openly, knowing Aramis of all people would not judge his lack of restraint.

Aramis smirked, his gold-brown eyes lighting up, pupils already far blown. He did not remove his hands, but lifted his heels slightly so his mouth could reach at Porthos' once more. Now he dared to drag his tongue across the line of Porthos' lower lip, reveling in every sound he could elicit from his friend. He was caught off guard himself, however, as Porthos' mouth bore down impatiently, his own tongue suddenly gliding against Aramis'. So much for Aramis having all the fun – he thought his knees would give out beneath him. 

“Christ, you're good at that,” he whispered quickly, before dipping forward for another go.

“Aramis,” Porthos growled as a reminder.

“What? I think it's healthy to give credit where credit's due.” 

Porthos' response was a snarl and to grab at Aramis' throat again. 

“You're not the most tender of lovers, are you?”

“One day, you'll really need to learn to shut up.”

“I can think of a way to start.” Aramis grinned again, infuriatingly, and gave Porthos' bum a distracting squeeze before slipping out of the hold around his throat and falling smoothly to his knees, the hands around Porthos' backside cleverly swooping the loosened trousers and braes below the curved flesh, easing gently over the prominent peak of Porthos' desperate cock, and then to the floor. 

Porthos' chest heaved. He trembled.

Aramis kept himself raised high enough that his face was level with Porthos' stomach, and he tenderly wove his fingers with Porthos' – this wasn't going to go as quickly as his friend was desperate for. Aramis kissed gently at the warm flesh of Porthos' bared stomach, he nuzzled at muscle and skin, drug his lips across pocked, twisted, and raised scars.

“How is it you have so many more scars than I do?” He murmured, sinking discreetly lower, his chin, lips, nose, always gliding against Porthos' flesh.

“Because I get into the real fights.”

That sprung a hearty bark of a laugh from Aramis. Porthos grinned. 

Aramis' mouth found the crease of Porthos' left hip and his teeth felt carefully at the bone prominent beneath the skin like marred bronze. He noted the shaky inhale of breath – Porthos was getting better at control – and the tense spasm of the man's stomach. He moved lower, hyper-aware of the boundary he was about to cross, and how close he was. The heat of Porthos' body could have scalded anyone other than himself. He kissed delicately at the taught skin of Porthos' groin and the sensitivity of the spot caused one of the man's large thighs to shift in compensation, which in turn jostled Aramis just enough that his chin bumped the tender head of Porthos' ready cock. 

A menacing sound rumbled in Porthos' chest and he moved agilely, dragging Aramis up from the floor, gripping him by the biceps, and turning to force him to the low bed. In reminiscence of their initial struggles in the alley, Aramis grabbed back, catching hold of a shoulder and forcing Porthos to tumble on top of him. 

“Damn you, Aramis,” Porthos didn't hesitate to snarl into the hectic mass of limbs and hot skin, his words slipping between quick, hungry kisses. The sweet tenderness of the past minutes was already long forgotten.

“Get-..get the breeches off,” Aramis panted, his hands and arms trapped against the width of Porthos' chest, the larger body overwhelming. 

Porthos did as instructed, his friend's breeches already unlaced and only needing hasty tugs past lean legs and bony ankles until they were no longer a problem. Before Aramis could make any sort of impatiently witty comment, Porthos grabbed at the hem of the braes – but lingered long enough to finger curiously at the firm curve of Aramis' cock beneath the thin fabric. Aramis gasped and writhed, not even attempting to humble himself before Porthos' content chuckle. Satisfied with his brief revenge, Porthos slipped the garment away, his eyes catching on the prominence of a manhood that was not his own. 

Hesitation tainted his mind again – he was not of the church, this was not a sin to him, in fact the people he came from would likely think of him no differently other than more worldly after this – but this was foreign territory and it was inappropriate in many other manner of ways. 

“It's all right, Porthos,” Aramis spoke softly, the potential still present for harsh, masculine collision to continue once more, but he was sensitive to his companion. 

Porthos looked away from Aramis' body, straight into his eyes once more.

“Say my name again,” he demanded, voice low.

Aramis watched him for a moment before whispering, with just the amount of desperation he knew his friend wanted to hear. “Porthos.”  
With a heavy exhale through his nostrils, clenching his jaw for a moment while doing so, Porthos moved forward to kiss Aramis firmly once more. This was a sensation he would never want to give up, he thought to himself. No matter what happened in the next minutes, no matter what happened within a week, a month - nothing would mean so much to him as the touch of Aramis' lips against his. Their mouths slid together easily now, Porthos stroking his tongue against the other man's and being rewarded with a sigh that turned into a soft moan as he eased his body closer, his weight settling nervously on Aramis. Their bare bodies connected, thighs and chests together, strict erections caught against one another. Aramis drug the nails of a hand across Porthos's cheek and into his hair, the grip clenching as his mouth was worked raw by the skilled maneuvers of his friend. 

In return, Porthos tugged the hand away from his hair to pin it to the bed. Their bodies jostled as he did so, and his thigh slipped between Aramis' legs. The sensation of a hard and wet cock against his hip while his own ground against Aramis nearly broke him, and the blind, dominant force came out once more. 

He twisted the arm of the hand he still held, gaining Aramis' attention and forcing his body to turn in an attempt to relieve the discomfort. Porthos fell aside, desperate to remove his body from the other man before heat and mild friction alone led him to embarrass himself. He raised to his knees and grabbed crudely at Aramis' bare body – a tangle of limbs with muscle leaner than his thick knots, scars lesser in number and prominence, and skin a light, dusky brown different from his own. All around, Aramis was the more appealing form. He kissed the man hard and brief, before fumbling hurriedly to turn him over, vaguely aware of what was needed to reach satisfaction. But, as had happened repeatedly the night so far, Aramis was not so willing to be forced into subservience.

He twisted against Porthos' grip and, using his legs to an unexpected advantage, turned Porthos nearly onto his back, Aramis now above him. The two men struggled heatedly, kisses likes punches and love bites marring necks and shoulders while muscle fought against muscle, Porthos impatiently hungry for release and Aramis purposefully resisting, fully aware the fight turned Porthos on just as much as it did him.

Porthos' hand found his throat for a third time that night, and Aramis dug his blunt nails into the heat of the man's pecs, the heavier body over him once again. 

They panted into each other's mouths, smelling and tasting and feeling nothing but one another. Aramis closed his eyes in pleasure, lifting his head to find Porthos' mouth again, but Porthos kept his lips out of reach. Surprised, Aramis opened his eyes and found his friend staring down at him with an infuriatingly perplexed expression.

Porthos spoke: “What about the queen?”

Aramis stared. “I don't believe she has much to do with this.”

“I've seen you look at 'er.” Aramis rolled his eyes and struggled to move in Porthos' grasp but it was a futile effort. “And a dozen whores. Fine ladies. Tavern maids.”

“What I was doing earlier,” Aramis interjected, “was foreplay. What you're doing, my friend, is idiotic.” Porthos didn't react. “Have you ever bothered to think some of us might fancy more than one kind of body? What about the women you've been with, hm? You don't hear me whinging.” Aramis struggled against the weight on top of him and the firm hand on the side of his throat once more.

“This isn't something I ever thought I wanted,” Porthos bit back, the words a bit harsher than he expected and he regretted them immediately.

Aramis paused, finally staring back into his companion's dark eyes seriously. “If you're going to regret this Porthos, tell me now.” His voice was soft, unoffended. “I don't want to be part of something you're unsure of.”

Porthos gazed down at the man beneath him. He felt the heat of their bodies, recalled the taste of Aramis' mouth, the eroticism of his touch, the tenderness of his voice. And he kissed him again – hard and sure.

Aramis kissed back for only a moment before breaking away to whisper, “Remember Porthos, my friend – I only truly want you.” His lips grazed Porthos' jawline. “Now show me how you want me.”

“You're nothing but well-reheasrsed lines, Aramis-” Porthos joked briefly, his tender self-doubt banished a final time, and he mouthed at Aramis' neck opposite of where his hand still rested, receiving fingers scraping down his biceps in return.

The larger man used his dominant weight to advantage, kissing hard at Aramis and letting his teeth lightly mar the increasingly-sensitive skin, while spreading his body generously, overbearing and claiming. Aramis squirmed provocatively and palmed at the man's arms, chest, stomach, loving the heavy heat of his friend while desperate for more. 

Porthos dared to rock his hips, nudging his arousal into Aramis' abdomen.

Aramis groaned and writhed beneath Porthos. “Turn me over,” he whispered heatedly and Porthos fumbled in hasty desperation.

Aramis pushed himself up from his stomach to all fours, and grunted softly when he was tugged backwards by a hand on his thigh, with fingers dangerously close to his manhood. His toes felt the edge of the large bed and this relative blindness excited him. Hands spread across his lower back, running up to his shoulders, just skimming across his skin, the fascination Porthos felt tangible through the way he touched him and Aramis closed his eyes, reveling in the intimacy. The hands slid back down to his waist and then gripped each hip, the thumbs of both hands working carefully at his buttocks. 

He was panting almost desperately now, the anticipation at a climax and his body sick of foreplay. He turned his head to the left, half-facing the man behind him. “Th-the washbasin, in the corner..the small grey jar..”

“Have you done this before?” Porthos asked, no jealousy in his voice, just curiosity.

Aramis shook his head. “No, but I imagine the mechanics of it are simple enough.”

Porthos' laugh sounded like a scoff, and he patted a palm against Aramis' bum once before stepping away to do as he'd been instructed. Aramis took the few seconds of separation as a chance to regain his breathing and stability, but it was a feeble effort as Porthos' imminent return was signaled not by a weight on the bed behind him again but a kiss just beneath his shoulder blade.

Aramis hummed softly in pleasure and turned his head toward the man behind him, reaching for a kiss and being granted one, Porthos gently gripping his chin with a knuckle and licking slowly into his mouth. God, he really was good at that. Unchecked, Aramis found himself sighing with what sounded closer to a whimper and he could feel Porthos smile against his mouth. A hand grabbed at his waist again and tugged his arse back, flush against the heat of Porthos' body, cock rubbing briefly between his legs. Aramis broke the kiss, panting, his brows furrowing in focused restraint. Porthos kissed softly at the side of his mouth, then to his shoulder, and stood straight again.

There was a moment of quiet and stillness between them, and then Porthos, soft and faintly unsure, “Shall I...use my hand?” Aramis nodded, his hands bracing himself up, his eyes closed gently in anticipation. His body nearly quivered with the tension.

A hot palm smoothed across the small of his back for a moment, as if attempting to massage out the tense muscles. Then came an unmistakable touch at his hole, just one finger slicked in the skin salve from the grey jar, applying only a brief moment of pressure, but surprise tore a heated moan from his chest. The finger pressed harder, entering him by a knuckle, and Porthos was alarmed at the tension he found he fought against.

“Aramis,” he started, and his voice was thick and difficult. “You're gonna have to breathe, mate. Try to relax.”

“I am trying,” Aramis snapped back.

“Yeah and I'm doing my best not to hurt you,” Porthos retorted. “So try harder, or we're gonna have to do something different.” He punctuated this threat by pushing his hand closer, the finger in a fraction deeper, and Aramis' head dropped lower with a shaking sigh. But the lean body did begin to relax, not by much but enough to make Porthos feel more comfortable.

The sensation of his finger in a man's body, so much tighter and tense than a woman had ever been, was disconcerting at first, but Aramis' apparent pleasure was plenty of an encouragement. He nudged his finger in deeper, nearly all the way, studying every line of Aramis' body. Muscles flexed and relaxed spasmodically but he kept his voice in check for the time being, breathing heavily and loosing no more than a muffled groan now and again.

“More,” Aramis muttered, and the invitation drove straight to Porthos' own smoldering arousal. 

He crooked the finger slightly before pulling it out, and then nudging carefully back in with two digits, moving less gently than he had before. Aramis swore softly in surprise. Try as he might, his body still rebelled and tensed cautiously against Porthos' intrusion, but Porthos became less concerned as he focused on the desperate change in Aramis' breathing. Neither of them would last long, this he knew. 

Porthos shifted, becoming impatient as he, not for the first time in the past hour, brimmed with an arousal more severe than he believed he'd ever felt before. He kept his right hand moving slowly, steadily fucking the two fingers deeper and deeper into Aramis, who had began to clutch at the bedsheets. His head had dropped beneath his shoulders, forehead resting against the mattress, and soft grunts or sighs worked their way from him every few seconds.

Porthos leaned down and kissed hungrily at the small of his back, short beard scraping just above the line of his bum. Aramis jumped and his body tightened desperately. Porthos mouthed a ways higher, breathing against skin, tasting the sheen of sweat that had developed. He scraped teeth over a particular prominent scar, trailed his lips along another, and adjusted the position of his hand. Aramis nearly yelped, his hands shoving at the sheets before him, mussing up the bed covers ferociously. 

“I can actually feel,” Porthos murmured at the base of Aramis' neck, sweat and heat overwhelming, “every move you make from the inside..”

Aramis groaned softly. “I can't- Porthos-” he was panting harder, Porthos' hand moving faster, and his body rocked instinctively into the touch. “I don't have long-”

“Well come on, then,” Porthos encouraged teasingly. He kissed at the edge of Aramis' jaw, swooping the wild hair away from the man's neck and nesting his fingers in it.

Porthos' body was draped awkwardly over Aramis, but with a quick movement of his hips to the right, Porthos found he could finger at Aramis and, as the man's body moved back against his hand, his cock slid against the inside of Aramis' thigh. Aramis bit his lip, desperate not to fall apart too easily, but Porthos groaned freely into his ear. He nuzzled his face into Aramis' hair, wild and thick as it was, feeling the sweat of the man's body beneath his, imaging desperately that the tight heat around his fingers was around his manhood instead. He shoved his body closer against Aramis, earning a shaking groan in response. 

“God damn,” he muttered heavily, breathing against his companion's neck. Aramis laughed in response, once, gently, his forehead still braced against the bed. Porthos began to move his hips in rhythm against Aramis', his cock rubbing again the man's thigh, nudging against his partner's own cock more than once. 

At this, Aramis finally became loud, loosing a choked-half cry, and dug his face into the bed helplessly while the fine muscles of his back flexed and spasmed his hips into Porthos, who only pushed closer, hungrier, the sounds of their bodies breaking the heated stillness of the room. His fingers curled within Aramis and he must've done something right because what had been a choked cry before became a sharp, shocked moan, verbalizing a degree of pleasure words couldn't be found for. Aramis' trembling body shifted beneath his weight, and Porthos grunted, hips jolting aggressively, when he felt Aramis' knuckles graze his dangerously alert cock. The man was stroking himself, his breathing having become high-pitched whines, nonsensical moans slipping out often. 

Whereas before the men's foreplay had consisted of banter and tussling, now they were focused, intimate, quiet other than sounds of pleasure and their bodies intent on the task at hand. Porthos continued to curl his fingers in rhythm with his thrusts, clenching his jaw as his cock bumped Aramis' hand. The slighter man was starting to shake, sweat in a sheen across his shoulders as he braced his head on a forearm and stroked himself, gasping through the sensations of Porthos' weight and breath and fingers inside him, in just the right place, grunting his name into his skin, and it was so much, so much at once, all heat and movement, and Porthos, it was Porthos doing this to him-

Aramis came over his own hand with a groaning sob that wrung itself from his chest rather than his throat, and Porthos marveled at the arching spasm that claimed the man's body beneath him. He kept his hips moving a moment more but relaxed his hand, gently working Aramis off his frantic high and letting the man's intense gasping fall to content panting.

Aramis reached back then, without looking, and fumbled to grab the wrist of the hand Porthos still had inside him. Understanding, Porthos slipped his fingers out, and lifted his entire body in order to give the other man a little space. Aramis still managed to have himself propped up on one hand and he looked over his shoulder – dark, tangled hair sex-strewn forward, into his eyes – and then rolled smoothly onto his back, away from the spots of come staining the fabric where he had just been, grabbing at Porthos as he did so. Porthos willingly fell forward, nearly on top of Aramis, who kissed him hard the moment he was within reach. Nimble fingers found their way around his hardened cock, sure and steady, and Porthos grunted with surprise into his lover's mouth. Aramis remained half-seated, braced backwards on an elbow while Porthos knelt over him, tucking his head down to kiss deep into Aramis' eager mouth. 

Porthos' groans were swallowed with Aramis' tongue, his shoulders flexed, muscles prominent and intimidating, and his legs twitched desperately when Aramis' hand moved just right. The grip became a little tighter, a little faster, and Porthos dropped his head to brace against Aramis' shoulder, both men breathing heavily. Porthos groaned quietly, letting the arousal continue it's steady increase, ready for release to finally be granted, and in the hands of Aramis.

He murmured nonsense words and sounds into Aramis' chest, his head falling lower, arms sinking down as his muscles lost sensible control in wake of pleasure. Aramis twisted his wrist coyly, and just a few strokes more, and Porthos came hotly onto his thigh, a rumbling groan cascading in a heat of breath against his scarred chest. Porthos panted a moment more, his large body shaking slightly, and Aramis dropped the arm that had been holding himself up, falling onto his back completely and using that free hand to weave into Porthos' hair, fingering the curls. Porthos let himself fall forward, pressed flush against Aramis' chest, hiding his face, arm thrown loosely across the man's torso, but still resting on his knees. 

They lay like that for a few long moments, perhaps appearing awkward but feeling perfectly at ease, both more at peace than they'd been in months.

Porthos kissed Aramis' chest after several long breaths, and then pushed himself up from where he'd collapsed. He stared down at the other man for a moment, a faint smile on the edge of his lips as he did so, and Aramis looked back up at him with raised brows.

“Yes, dear?” Clearly, Aramis' persistent sarcasm was not altered post-coital.

Porthos rolled his eyes, losing the soft content look he'd held just a moment before, and fell to the side, so he lay next to Aramis rather than on top of him.

“You're impossible,” he muttered, smiling as he did so.

“You're unoriginal,” came the reply, and Porthos snorted good-naturedly. Aramis rolled to his side to look at his companion, grinning as casually as ever, and then kissed him briefly, surely. 

Aramis made to get up from the bed then, but his body clenched and froze, his face going tense in discomfort. Porthos raised himself to his elbows but didn't speak, not wanting to seem like a nursemaid. Aramis gestured vaguely at him, indicating he not bother himself, and then – more slowly – eased himself off the mattress. Porthos watched him walk, a bit stiffly, to the washbasin and pick a loose cloth off a nearby shelf and soak half of it in water, then return to the bed. 

“I'm fine,” Aramis answered Porthos' concerned dark eyes, and his handsome face was not teasing, just gentle, pleased by his lover's concern. “I'm just sore.” 

Porthos didn't apologize, didn't need to, instead watching timidly as Aramis lifted a leg to wipe away the semen that decorated his skin. Porthos studied the bare body, the flaccid cock, the hair around his groin, the meat at his hips and thighs, the handful of scars scattered on legs, stomach, chest, and a few, he knew, on the man's back. Most of them, he'd been present to the making of and they were his memories as much as their bearer's. 

Aramis wiped at the portion of the bed he had been bent over, and then tugged part of a sheet on top of it, smiling a touch sheepishly up at Porthos as he did so. Porthos smiled in return, relaxing on his back, his head resting on an arm bent behind him, the other draped casually across his stomach.

“You gonna lay down or keep fussing?” He teased gently, and Aramis tossed aside the soiled cloth, then crawled toward him on the blessedly expansive bed. They may have fairly humble livings as musketeers, but Aramis' charm could conjure an amusing array of things.

He crouched beside Porthos, on his hands and knees, obviously comfortable in the nakedness of his body in a way that made Porthos comfortable in turn. He slowly leaned forward, smirking as he made his lover wait for the oncoming kiss, and then sighing softly when their mouths met again. It was a beautiful sensation, being allowed to kiss and touch and take in Porthos, to be as close with him as had been long desired – whether either of them had consciously acknowledged the desire or not. The kiss was slow and comfortable, made of tongues and warm breath and satisfaction. Porthos brought his teeth against Aramis' bottom lip then, playfully, and Aramis pulled back sharply with a smirk as he stared thoughtfully into the other man's dark, steady gaze.

Porthos nipped forward, and again Aramis pulled his head back, making as if to pull away but Porthos had his arms around the man's slighter body, and he rolled into Aramis to prevent him from getting out of reach. Their playfulness returned, Aramis teasingly squirming to get away from Porthos' embrace, and Porthos' easily holding him, pulling him closer and trying to find another kiss. Aramis laughed aloud after a moment and marveled discreetly at his own enjoyment – this intimacy, for something so new, already felt so natural. He'd seldom been happier. And this happiness, he dearly hoped and yet dare not dwell on it, would last.

The men's brief tussle ended with Aramis on his back, arms pinned by Porthos, who lay half-on top of him, arms locked around his shoulders, chuckling down at his victory. They quieted after a couple breaths and Porthos kissed him again, slowly, before releasing Aramis and falling onto his back beside him. They lay shoulder to shoulder, bodies bare and open and exposed just as they had bared and exposed themselves entirely to one another, for brief moments in time. 

Aramis turned his head to stare at Porthos, not bothering to be discreet about it but he was paid no heed, the other man's eyes blinking slowly for a moment and then shutting gently. He wasn't going to sleep, Aramis could tell; he was simply at peace. And so Aramis stared openly, his eyes freshly seeing the imperfect skin a different shade and hue than his own, the old scar cutting neatly across his eye, the pleasantly-pouting line of his mouth, shoulders broader than his and arms thicker, the entire body stronger and bulkier than his slighter form, and Aramis felt lesser for a moment, more fond of Porthos' masculine form in comparison to his own. Porthos had more scars as well, namely on his hands and forearms from brawls or his chest from early days as a musketeer, when he wasn't as quick or clever. There were more serious and ominous scars on his back, but Aramis daren't address them.  
“You're about t'make me uncomfortable,” Porthos muttered, raising a brow, eyes still closed. Aramis paid his words no attention and nudged closer to press his lips against Porthos' shoulder, feeling the ridge of yet another scar. “Musket ball,” Porthos explained before realizing Aramis knew that one, he'd stitched it himself. Far too many times had Aramis been there to put him back together.

Aramis kissed it softly and planted a half dozen more soft kisses around the warm skin of Porthos' shoulder, his beard scraping and tickling, his body pressing closer. Porthos shifted and pressed his lips into Aramis' untamed hair before finding his forehead, his nose, his mouth. He truly would never tire of Aramis' lips against his. He never wanted to go anywhere else, do anything else, than be right here, kissing this man. This was a relationship that, as he thought about it, he could feel leaving a mark in his very soul. But these were heavy thoughts and he didn't want to bother himself with them - not when he could be sleeping soon instead. 

Indeed Aramis' returning kiss had grown lazy in a drowsy manner, and Porthos smiled against the man's mouth before pulling back. Now Aramis' eyes were closed, and he tucked his face childishly against Porthos' arm, one hand finding its way to rest on Porthos' stomach. Porthos met the hand with his own and turned his face toward Aramis' tousled hair again, adjusting his weight a moment more, and then letting his eyes fall closed too.

They both often spoke so much, and yet had so little in the past hour, and now without a single word they were falling asleep to each other's touch. They each had plenty of thoughts, plenty of concerns about what had just progressed between them, plenty of fears, but they did not need verbalized and certainly not at that moment. For two men who spoke so often, they seldom needed to speak with one another, so well did they know them. They would be satisfied for now, both happier than they had felt in ages, and desperate to make it last.


End file.
